Meet Me at the Hotel Room
by Cassend
Summary: Jill's pissed and possibly drunk. What could go amiss?  Oneshot Wesker/Jill


**Meet Me in the Hotel Room**

_Alias_

He was a well-versed individual with a disdain for closure. Closure meant end, a reached conclusion in which the pages ceased to be filled with text, and the cover was closed. Why strive for closure, for satisfaction at something that had ceased to be? No longer could you experience something again, no longer could you taste, touch, scent a happening that was part of that closed memory. He was always of the future, and the future was timeless, without closure until the fateful fabricated Armageddon would come. He believed in no such bullock, nothing but the future, nothing but the ceaseless existence that could fill libraries with the meaningful and meaningless.

In short, Wesker was a complete asshole every present day. Maybe it was just his nature to be a well-worded bastard with a penchant for black, or perhaps it was some sort of gesture to signify that he hated the monotony of average people. He was hard to agree with, hard to read, and harder still to ignore. The man was brilliant, a tactical genius, a combat expert, and his qualifications were coming out of his ass despite his constant miasma of intrigue. There was once a rumor flying around the Police Department, that this man was probably a spy for the British government. Oddly enough, that seemed way too plausible, but she blamed it on the shades and movies like Quantum of Solace for that. Besides, his accent didn't seem British, it just seemed like… Wesker… Captain Wesker accented…

Jill didn't pride herself on it, didn't make it known whatsoever that the first thing she noticed about a person was the way they looked at you. The first time she had met Wesker, he looked her straight in the eye, and neither could read the other, she could tell from the way he spoke to her. She knew how to read people, pay attention to what they did and how they did it, or what they didn't do. The first day she had met Wesker, he looked straight at her, and saw her own reflection in the dark lenses of his glasses. She had to pause before answering during the interview, for her own warped image made her distrustful immediately. He responded to her distrust, by being rather blunt, commanding, displaying his authoritarian side, the Captain side instead of the human side of him.

Jill remembered the encounter, it gave her the creeps. Ever since the day of her interview for S.T.A.R.S., she had been studying him, enough to chance a guess at his debonair and simultaneously cold personality. Antipathy wasn't quite her cup of tea, and neither was mistrust, so he had forever been caught between her wariness and her reliance. She was looking at a piece of a bigger puzzle, and perhaps it was her own mulling, constant mulling, but she swore on her grave that something was off here. Over time, Wesker proved himself to be not only a brilliant strategist, but also a man of his word. He said very little to them personally, if it wasn't ordered or a level of smug that was carefully held in position, but when he did say something meaningful, he never ever went back on those words. It was… half admirable?

It made them all realize why he didn't consider a career as a politician. While she never completely trusted Wesker as a person (he was kind of a shady fellow), as the Captain of Alpha Team, she would never have anyone else leading her. He would never let them down. It was such a shame that he was a bit of a self-righteous asshole, they might have been… friends? Jill Valentine and Albert Wesker, friends? The thought was rather hard to understand in plain English. The man didn't have friends, he had subordinates. He didn't have a necessity for friends, for company at all, but that sounded like an excuse she was telling herself. Maybe she thought so much because she was wishfully thinking again, of someone to talk to.

Jill Valentine wanted someone to talk to right now and a shot (or five) of Brandy wasn't much for conversation. She was supposed to be relaxing in a five star hotel, sixteen driving hours from Raccoon City, miles away in the middle of a city of lights and sound. Traffic had been bad on the way up, Chris had been pissed that she left with things so badly off between them, in the middle of a fight she had grabbed the keys, called her Captain, and left without further notice.

Her boyfriend was an occasional idiot, sometimes completely oblivious, but maybe it was getting stuck behind that semi-truck for six hours extra while road crew scooped the sorry remains of a ten car pileup off the road, that had her exponentially down on her mood. After the second shot, perhaps it wasn't so surprising she wanted someone to talk to, and it was equally unsurprising that it was Wesker who her mind kept wandering to. An extremely biased, bitchy opinion of Chris was exactly what she wanted to hear right now.

It wasn't a secret that the Captain and Chris were of completely opposite sides of the perverbeal chess board. Picking on Chris seemed to be Wesker's past-time. It was always subtle picking, an extra few sit-ups in training, a heavier load of paperwork than the rest, a more critical gaze than the rest of them (though Wesker was critical and scrutinizing on them all). Chris was the person in the crosshairs, for one reason or another.

Jill chuckled at the thought, and reached to tuck a strand of cherry-brown hair back behind her ear where it belonged. They must have thought she was drunk, or maybe just an idiot staring at a shot glass in the middle of a lavish, over decorated hotel restaurant. She looked exhausted, she knew it. Her eyes were so waxy and red that shapes blurred at the edges, and fatigue pulled at her head petulantly. How many hours had she been up? She didn't even bother to count, for in her state of mind, the numbers were jumbled from the moment they hit even a smidge of recognition. Numbers? What the hell were those?

"Personal sentiment isn't my interest, but I thought you of stronger character, Jill."

She literally jumped, fell over by tripping on (what the hell how does this happen?) the side of her booth seat, and so eloquently knocked over the half glass of brandy. Liquid spilled over the wood and she grunted from her spot on the floor, and half felt like staying there to hide from the personal embarrassment. Thankfully, the only such individual who was mad enough to be here at this time (besides the service, of course.) was none other than Albert Wesker. As she found her feet, dignity pretty much moot at this point and hip aching from contact, she had to think to herself whether or not that special on Discovery Health about sleep deprivation was applicable. She had to be hallucinating that the guy she was just thinking about, was here now, sitting opposite of her in her booth at the awesome hour of four in the fucking am. It took her more than a moment to settle back into her seat, and halfheartedly pull napkins from a dispenser and pat them onto the amber puddle that became the centerpiece for their table.

"You look awful."

"Thanks." She snipped back, the first word she had said, and she sighed like the entire world was far too much right now. Her hand went to her eyes, rubbing them continuously, her train of thought hitting a roadblock. As much as she wanted to, there was absolutely no way she could believe that her Captain was sitting right there, and in his "casual" wear no less. Of course he would wear a black button up, and of course he would accentuate with some very classy slacks. Who the hell wore such things as "casual"? Jill didn't know, she didn't care if she was sitting in a nice restaurant in jeans and some random low cut v-neck she just pulled out for the hell of it. Apparently, the suave appearance was eons important to him, from the slicked back blonde hair, to the glasses, to the black.

"Why did you come all the way down here?" she muttered, swabbing the remnants of her fallen drink with soggy napkins (and just to make sure she wasn't dreaming, she kicked her own shin). "You could've just called me, e-mailed me."

She wasn't in the mood for his inevitable sarcasm; her tone was flat, humorless, and so generally tired of life, she hoped he took the hint. Wesker didn't answer at first, he shifted his position and put his elbows on the table, laced his fingers under his chin, and leaned forward. In the dim yellow of the electric chandeliers they had hanging all over the place, it was even more difficult to see his expressions, but his posture told her something. Jill noticed his elbows, the muscled lean curve of his arm, and the complete unease with which he held his hand.

"Captain- please. I've been awake 29 straight hours, and am not in the mood for-"

"I need you back by tomorrow night." He muttered. She stared at him with wide blue eyes like he was a lunatic. He was a lunatic. Suddenly she didn't want to talk to anyone anymore, just sleep in that nice gigantic hotel bed with the black satin sheets. Maybe four heavy hours of sleep and a twenty four ounce coffee with five espresso shots would cheer her up. (Numbers!) Her heart felt like it sunk at his announcement, and so did any teeny fragments of good humor.

"You drove ten hours to tell me something you could've told me on the phone."

"How observant." He quipped, and she wanted to slam her fist into his face, an act of violence that she really never thought herself quite capable of until now. "But you had your phone turned off, and laptop. And how, praytell, should I get into contact with you then? Perhaps I should have contacted the phone number of the hotel, the one you did not care to leave me."

"Don't patronize me. I asked you for vacation time. What, were you worried I was in that accident on the turnpike?"

There wasn't any humor in that, nor was there a reaction to it. In fact there was so much of a not reaction, she swore that the absence of It, and the absence of an answer meant that she had hit that nail on the head. Maybe it was the Brandy talking again, or her own stupid wish that someone of intellect was able to understand her bizarre personality. Damn her for wanting company, damn the headache that just now decided to flop down in her skull. It was just like her Captain to show up uninvited and demand her for work on vacation.

Her brain mumbled back that she was being quite stupid though, if he had come all this way, it had to be important enough. Before he had the chance to respond, she raised her hand full of soggy napkins to cut him off. "Alright, so what happened?"

The Captain quirked his brow, a gesture that she took as probably irritated. She had never spoken to him in such a snappy tone, and in such a way that almost challenged his authority. The wariness that was constantly in the back of her mind pawed at her, told her to be a little smarter with her words, because he was not a man who was spoken down to. The Captain was her superior, and countless times had shown her just how far she could push herself, and just how talented of a person he really was. After so many months, it wasn't a surprise to her how charismatic he really was, but it also wasn't a surprise to feel like something was very off about him.

"We lost contact with Bravo Team." He said. His tone was flat, stoic, and her brow furrowed. "I suppose since you seem accommodated here, I could easily bring one of the trainees on the investigation."

She couldn't see his eyes, but she could see that his lip had thinned into a tight line. He was irritated, she was irritated, and somewhere in the background Johnny Cash was playing over a rustic sounding radio some ridiculously unfitting song that just sounded eerie right now.

"No, I'll be there tomorrow." She sighed the punctuation mark as Mr. Cash chimed in with 'down, down, down, in the flames'. It was probably for the best that she didn't stay for more than one night anyways, her paycheck wasn't exactly surviving tonight. Then she'd have to pick up her sagging relationship with Chris, tell him he was right and she was wrong (about something she didn't have the energy to remember at the moment, and likewise wasn't caring.) And Bravo Team, the newer kids on the block… They disappeared? All of them?

Wesker wasn't leaving, and she hadn't any idea why. She felt like she was being watched, scrutinized, though she always got that feeling around her Captain, especially on her own. He crossed his arms as if he was waiting for something she wasn't saying, impatiently too, or maybe he was just irritated with her overall. She got the feeling he was staring at her, and it took about three more verses of good old Johnny Creepy 4AM Cash to realize that she was staring right back at him with a completely blank expression, holding a wad of smelly used napkins in her hand.

"I should go to bed then." She muttered, and the thought of cuddling up in a mound of satin and pillow fluff was way too good to hold off the pulling lethargy. The Captain made a movement then that she didn't anticipate, a tilting of his head without words, silent inquiry. She paused in her motion to stand, and looked at him. "What?"

"Valentine, are you drunk?"

That strange aversion nipped her neck again. He would not ask if he didn't anticipate something five steps in the future, was that right? Was she really reading him correctly, or was it just another form of wishful thinking for conversation or human concern from another person. Wesker was the last person she expected to show concern openly, in any manner, so she had to assume he wasn't about her state.

"No, I'm not. Would it matter?"

"Considering, Jill, that Redfield was petrified of your assumed recklessness to the point where he bugged your car, yes."

"What the hell? He bugged my car?"

Her Captain looked about as irritated as her about the fact. She didn't get up whatsoever, just slumped back into the booth and sighed, grabbing the bottle of Brandy and pouring yet another shot of liquid for herself. Never mind the patching things up with Chris, never mind going to bed, because she was going to have one more shot right at this moment with her Captain.

"That's just like him to be an overprotective idiot." She sighed, and snagged another glass from the edge of the table, putting it down with more force than intended before her Captain. "Here, it's my money and you drove."

Her Captain tilted his head, and smirked back at her, eyeing the glass. "You really think I want a glass?"

She watched his lips curve into the smug smirk. Yes, she was acting strangely, she had an attitude, she was cranky, tired, and bitchy. Let him sit there and be amused at her mood, sadist Captain. The Brandy was tasteless on the way down, her mind too full of other things to register it, like if he really was a sadist or not. Maybe it wasn't quite sadism that milked a subtle smirk from him, because she just couldn't see her captain beating people to get off. Jill stared at the empty glass with the realization that she was picturing the man before her wielding a whip. It was definitely past the point of no return.

He poured himself enough to fill the bottom of the glass, and no more, as she put hers down and rubbed her forehead in half attempt to remove the picture from her head. Unsurprisingly it wasn't the first time she thought of Wesker's sex life. S.T.A.R.S. practically mainstreamed the topic behind his back (though she was damn sure he knew about it, and frustrated everyone purposefully with his secrecy). She watched him behind her hand as he swirled the contents of the glass about, and finally sipped it like he was sampling a fine wine. He played like a cat, that was for sure.

"Your taste in drinks is terrible." He murmured setting the glass down, hardly touched whatsoever. She blinked once, twice, and didn't answer at first, the words sluggish in her head.

"Huh." She muttered back, just an ambiguous ending sound that could've meant anything in the entire world. Wesker's smirk faded as subtly as it came, and it was then she realized that vagueness wasn't a like of his when it was used on him, nor was a lack of reaction to his obvious prodding. Interesting. So he was a manipulator, not a sadist, but a verbal sadist? Her sleepy mind conjured up the logical conclusion that he must just have excessive amounts of verbosely worded phonesex. It was completely believable with his accent, and she made a strange face at the thought of Wesker talking women into orgasm (or was he into men?).

"Are you going to invite me to your room, Jill?" he sighed, as if it was the most dull question on planet Earth. Naturally she blinked at the oh-so-conveniently-placed-into-a-dirty-frame-of-mind question and stared at the lenses of his glasses. He was completely serious, but her little side trip into "I haven't gotten laid in way too long" land made her reconsider one or two things about her own state of mind.

"Er…" she began, and stared at him as his posture shifted a little to the uppity side. The Captain was back in his element again, superior attitude and under her skin. He was fine in groups, fine in combat, but this attitude was what always had her on edge. It wasn't on the surface, on his professional face; just under the badge was that part of him which twisted his tongue under your skin because he found it amusing. Perhaps the metaphor was a little ill placed at the moment, but rather fitting.

"Are you asking me to use my room?" she answered, and as she said the words, it made sense why he would need to. Driving so far to come to an expensive hotel wasn't exactly the stuff of dreams, or the stuff you walked away from with money still in your pocket. Sharing a room would be a logical thing to be inquiring about. The Captain quirked a brow and that bemused smirk returned to his face. She wanted to hit herself in the face before it even came out of his mouth.

"What else would I be inquiring about? Are you sure you aren't drunk, Miss Valentine? You seem a little flustered."

He took her glass very slowly, and slid it to his side of the table, as if to make it a point that he was very much aware of what exactly she was thinking. Jill stared at him like he was crazy, and damned him for her overactive (stupid hallucinating head) imagination taking things a little too far between them. Thinking about it now… would she really /mind/ a tall, handsome man with a dirty voice pushing her into slick satin sheets and (wow she should stop now) sinking into her (really stop, oh god!) and throwing her body enough to have her contorting with- oh god…

Was it just her or did she suddenly feel like her cleavage was conveniently at his eye level? That eye level yet to be determined, she entertained other things as QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. The wish came that her brain would roll over and die. Die in the gutter and not take her career with it.

"Perhaps I should escort you, Valentine, since you don't seem to be in your right mind." He said, and with a rather snarky tone about him. The man stood himself up and offered his hand, some bizarre display of gentlemanliness.

Wow. Was he actually flirting with her, or was he just being himself? The Captain hadn't left her table, hadn't just gotten up and left after he had come to do what he came to do. Or did he? Again her powers of observation (and wishful thinking) told her there was a reason he was staying, and though her brain logically went right to the fact that she had the room key, her berserk inner analyst told her that she had a vagina. Yeah, maybe she wasn't exactly in the right state of mind if she was thinking that her asexual Captain was bringing her back for a quick roll in the (really obnoxiously lavish and expensive) hay. One too many, too few hours of sleep, and general frustration out the ass, that surely had to be the reason for such… desperate thoughts that could probably fill up one of those creepy sex blogs that seemed to be the new rage.

"Alright." She muttered, giving up on herself entirely, not taking his hand out of an illogical fear that she'd be accepting some sort of pact with it. "Escort away."

She paid for the Brandy, tossed the napkins, and handed him the room key without a second thought.

Enter the most awkward elevator ride of her life that she was hardly conscious for. Jill found her head to be positively magnetized to the wall, while her mind was doing some sort of complex yoga pose over the idea that her Captain was going to be spending the night with her. If /any/ of the guys heard about this, she would be dragged into interrogation, and she knew it. She could picture it now, the obnoxious lamp in her face and the startling amount of questions that spanned from "DID YOU-" to "How big is it?"

She wondered the latter and forced herself to look anywhere but his crotch.

Still, aside from the conspicuousness, and the awkwardness, and the fact they hadn't spoken for five minutes straight (it took that long to find the elevator and get into it), it wasn't the end of the world yet, so she just set on being quiet and adapting to the situation, even if it meant constant sexual innuendo from the mental peanut gallery had to be endured.

And playing a game that involved guessing what exactly the Captain was thinking was first on the impromptu agenda. She liked to think she knew his personality enough to make an educated guess. Chances were he was thinking of either the fantastic drive home that was yet to come, or he was thinking "why the hell are you staring at me?". Judging by the way his head turned to meet her gaze, from the opposite side of the elevator, probably the second one.

"Yes, Jill?" he murmured, and she blinked drowsily.

"Huh? Sorry."

Abandon mental ship. Her thinker flopped down into that infamous downward dog pose and gave up at this game. Whatever, he could keep his thoughts to himself and she wouldn't wonder. Besides, she had more pressing matters at hand, like shoving her boot right up Chris's ass, or driving ten hours (or more) on little to no sleep. And then Bravo Team… they just disappeared. What could have done that? And how big REALLY was his-

"You aren't drunk?" he sighed, disbelieving. Jill looked up, gaped, and almost on cue.

"No, would it be funnier if I was?"

Maybe she was. Whatever the case, her Captain walked out as the elevator reached the floor and looked back at her with a rather pronounced frown. "Hypothetically?"

"Hypothetically, what? If I was drunk?"

"Hypothetically speaking, /are/ you funnier drunk?"

"I'm more fun when I have a bed to-."

It took her the shifting of his platinum blonde eyebrows up to figure out what she said was very wrong and she shut up. And wow, he was actually taking a moment to have that mental picture, wasn't he? Well, at least she wasn't the only one, and of course that only piqued the interest.

She hadn't any clue in reality what he was thinking, but out of a lack of sleep and a bit of alcohol bore the idea that he was looking down her shirt… so she had to look down too and blink at her own attire. Well, yeah, the navy blue v-neck was a little much without an undershirt, and she did have a bit of a cleavage problem… a lot of a cleavage problem. Actually, it was the kind of cleavage problem that merited spending way too much on bras and having the worst time finding lingerie, and running required at least three sports bras for the girls to not moshpit while the time called for EXCESSIVE ACROBACTIC MANUVERABILITY- THANK YOU CAPTAIN WESKER.

"Jill, are you going to stand out here with your head down your shirt?"

The poor woman stood outside the open door of her hotel room absolutely dumbfounded as to how he managed to open the door in the time it took her to check her theories (said theories were still in her shirt). His head followed her until she crossed the threshold, and he practically was rank with hilarity at her. His mouth was upturned in that bare minimum smirk that totally said "I completely know what you are thinking and it's funny to watch you squirm."… or maybe she was reading him wrong and it was saying something along the lines of "I totally want to nail you, stacked girl, nail you into the headboard…"

Holy godmother of flying fuck she needed sleep, now before the commentary in her head tore her pants off. Honestly, she wasn't usually this… active! She was Jill Valentine! JILL LEVEL-HEADED VALENTINE, GOD DAMN IT. She had to take a huge breathe and stop fantasizing about the tall muscled blonde guy because that was surely some kind of misconduct on her part.

"I do believe you are drunk, Jill." He murmured, and of course he had to be standing right behind her, far enough away to remain neutral, but close enough to stroke her already overactive fantasies. "Otherwise you likely wouldn't entertain the thought of sex."

She found her tongue was pressed to her inner cheek faster than she could think "get out of my head." Somehow, after that statement, after he blurted it oh so bluntly out, it completely made those fantasies plausible. Jill felt the flush on her cheeks whether it was from drinking or from the act of being caught gutter minded. Like it mattered anyways.

"Ah, wrong."

Impressed at her own ability to actually keep conversing, she kept walking, away from him, the bed within distance, SLEEP within a few feet. Look at the way the pillows were all organized, the way the sheets looked so tantalizingly soft and smooth! She wanted to launch herself into the mass of comfort and sleep for the next six days.

"Entertain on your rare lust for me."

He sounded intrigued in a bemused fashion; nothing about his words suggested anything more than mere curiosity. However, if he was the type of guy who always thought ahead… MAYBE this constituted as a pickup line? Well it definitely sounded like a grade A Wesker pickup line.

"It's not… lust- more like I want a conversation with someone who isn't completely moronic for fifty percent of their existence."

Pretty damn smooth for a drunken lady, she thought. The woman did have a knack for handling herself in sticky situations, pardon the obvious innuendo, and this conversation was certainly sticky, and probably going nowhere good. He took her words in with a mere quirk of his brow and a tilt of his head, it was a rather animalistic gesture at the core, and she took it as a gesture to "go on".

"Yeah, the guys are great, sure. But they are… uh-"

"Idiots with tactical skill?" he chanced, and added a slightly more than enough to punctuate a sentence smirk. She sat on the satin sheets, pinched the bridge of her nose in weariness and shook her head. Her raw urge to defend her team wasn't exactly at full power, so she was biased from the get go.

"Yes." She sighed. "Occasionally." Her hands parted from her body as if to say "whyyy?", and she looked to find him standing in the same spot, just smirking at her. "I'm frustrated."

Her honesty surprised even her. Thoughts of him walking over, no, striding as her mind's eye saw it, and pressing his lips to the underside of her neck, did not go away like they probably should have. Striding? Why was he /striding/ in her imagination? Yeah, he looked pretty damn haughty right now, but not enough to pull out the romantic comedy music and cheesy slo-mo walk to the bedside. Besides, he did kind of look the type to be a little on the rough side.

"Off the record, you seem a little more than frustrated." He said, the smirk taking permanent residence on his lips, and once there, transforming into something like a very amused smile. Why was this amusing?

"Off the record?" she dropped all kinds of tension in her body to slump forward into a funk. "Are you hitting on me Captain?"

The question was met with the same face, like it was a perfected mask of perverted proportions developed over countless encounters with pissed off girlfriends wanting some emotional satisfaction and his lean body plastered on them. Looking at the grand scheme of things, a sexy guy like him probably dealt with this before. Jill wondered if that question was too much. There wasn't ANY way that he would say yes to that. The condition she was in, the running against the clock, the lack of-

"Aren't you one of my criminal profilers, Valentine? Shouldn't you know?"

Smirk face never left, so he was either serious, or REALLY fucking with her head. She tried to wrap her head around the fact that her Captain in his own special way asked her to bed. It didn't work to rationalize it at all. She rose her fingers to pull back the annoying as hell strand of hair again, and found her mind in a state of civil war. On one side, desperate stupidity, on the other rational, job conscious Jill.

FIGHT.

'Tomorrow, think about tomorrow!' Job Jill screamed.  
>'HOT, HE'S REALLY, REALLY SEXY.' Stupidity raged,<br>Job Jill drew back for a punch. "You are with CHRIS. Chris HATES him! WHEN THE HELL HAVE YOU THOUGHT THAT BEFOREHAND?"  
>Stupidity tittered 'HE HAS A PENIS AND A BRAIN. THE BEST OF BOTH HEADS. I DO WHAT I WANT.'<p>

The inner montage must have been insanely intriguing on the outside, because he walked a little closer by a few steps. It wasn't much of a movement change, more of an asking permission for advancement than anything. Stupidity was winning, and he so was helping it conquer rationale. He was getting closer, and because of it, she could practically taste the sexual tension rolling off of that movement. Under that shirt was a full chest, a full clean cut body, some great abs… Jesus Christ, why did she still have her pants on?

"So… officework after this… that'll be fun." She muttered, dryly, an attempt to lighten the air in the room, which it failed at. Why was he taking his time, dammit! Did he want her to lie down and throw her legs into the air? Maybe even incorporate a giant sign in there somehow that said "hurry the fuck up and do me"? Maybe?

He chuckled, a gravely deep sound, and it made her thighs tighten as he enjoyed the smidge of humor. "Certainly fun, dearheart." He practically purred, and it made her hair stand on edge. What a combination of adjective and noun for a pet name… she was in anticipation, and the weather here was hot and wet.

He must've taken her gaze as an invitation, thank god, because he walked (no, unfortunately for Stupidity, he did not stride) to the bedside after eons of wait later. He must have been the type to not ask names, because his hands were the first thing on the sheets, sliding over the fabric and on either side of her legs. He was staring at her, face to face, and somehow her first thought was her disappointment that he did not take of the shades. Freud would have loved her mind's instant acceptance of the situation. She instantly fell into adoration with the way he growled as he planted a very brief kiss upon her lips.

Her heart pounded at it, she parted her thighs to allow him between her legs already. Either there was some serious subconscious lust in the air, or they just were two people who moved extraordinarily fast. Her Captain, whom Stupidity clearly erased the moral boundaries for, leaned forward, into the next kiss, and Jill found herself growling back at him as his tongue peeled her lips wide open, and they kissed like they were starved. Drunk as she was, she was hyperaware of the noises they made, a constant wet sound of him continuously entreating her, curling his surprisingly long tongue around hers and her pressing back. She had velvety lips, a little chapped, but she knew they were kissable and now he DEFINITELY was working the hell out of them.

Score one for the side of her that guessed he was aggressive. He was full on, into this, pushing her head into the sheets with the force of his lips alone (not that she was putting up much of a fight anyways. When he did finally pull away, when her body was on the bed and he was hovering over her like a spider with a wet-laced mouth, she did question the sanity of it all. Her Captain, of all people, smirked at her as his wet, clever mouth found other work, ghosting over her neckline, breathing on the pulse there as if he was inspecting her.

She swallowed the invisible boundary line with the musky taste of his tongue. "Curious."

It was just a fragment, an observation that sounded a little inebriated, but it seemed like that was the right thing to say to pry from Shades On During Intimacy Wesker. Seriously… she felt them graze her skin, over the wet kisses, small bites he was leaving. God he was strange, but damn his lips made her shiver a little as they slipped over her sternum.

"As much as your lecherous eyes" he paused to move back to her ear, to run the tip of his tongue over the delicate shell and make sure his voice was locked and loaded to croon her name. " Jill."

She sat up with a shudder and pulled off her shirt with a snap which made him chuckle and watch with keen perverse interest. Jill expected him to be grabby, to go for the very ample supply of chest area, but he did not, no, he stared at her body with an almost perplexed look. She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him after a moment, screaming something along the lines of "don't you know what comes next?" Stupitity screamed something about "emitting massive amounts of fuck me pheromones at the moment" but she didn't move. He was thinking something, and he was reaching to his face… and what? Taking off his glasses.

The Earth stood still, time stood still, she felt her own pulse quicken, and it wasn't just because the man's knees were pressing against the insides of her thighs. That one second was the longest second of her life. He pulled out the shades, and underneath them, she saw…. THEM. Not just any eyes, but they were BLUE eyes. Blue like the color of the ocean … like the color of, oh god she couldn't stop staring, gaping numbly at them. They were insanely hypnotic, indiscernibly expressive and simultaneously unreadable. She let out a held breath as one of his fingers traced her side right around to her back, running down it, inspecting her spine, every thin vertebrate was under his fingers.

She couldn't help shivering, twitching under his fingers, being hyperaware of his height advantage and the way he was meticulously fondling the clasp of her bra. Her mind chortled that it wasn't fair of him to get her out of her clothes so fast, and so her fingers decided to take leave and fly to the buttons of his shirt. He seemed in no hurry, in concentration, aggressive but exploring. He unhooked the bra, and peeled it off, savored the moment of reveal like it was candy, and his hands rolled her tits like he was molding clay with a captivation. She groaned at the feeling of his hand on her nipples, so much rough skin rolling her around. It was enticing, almost disturbing but not quite. She could feel a spot where something must have kicked back and cut into his hand, rough skin between his thumb and his trigger finger of his left hand. He wore gloves all the time, who would've thought he had some kind of scar there?

He was absolutely fascinated with her, she decided. No other guy would jump into bed so fast and then take his sweet time exploring every single inch. Chris wasn't even this thorough, but then again, he was Chris and jumped right to what he called "pleasuring her". She must've been really pissed off, antagonizing him to hell, but who really thought about that when Wesker threw his arms out of the sleeves and the shirt came off? Jill shuddered at the mere sight of it, all the lean muscle, and yes, she moaned as he lowered his body to press his chest against hers.

She couldn't tell what he was thinking now, his face was pressed into her shoulder, teeth bared against the skin of it like he wanted so badly to bite her but couldn't decide yet whether to. He moved against her, rubbed his muscle against her, she could feel the divots of his abs against her stomach and the thick bulge in his slacks through her jeans.

"Captain…" she muttered, and he seemed to bristle at that, tersely bundling up into a sexy as hell frozen position that she surely would have dreams about for years to come, his breath (he was breathing harder, which she took as a personal victory) repetitively touching her ear. "Nn- bag."

Though if it was a contest to see who worked the other up more she lost by a longshot. Her panties were wet and needed OFF, her legs wanted to dig into his hips and puppet him into an animal, make him move faster because this was just way, WAY too much of that "experimental" phase for one night. His response was almost predictable at this point, a rather blunt growl that made his chest roll, and her want to throw her head back and scream 'god damn it, just fuck me already.'

"What?" he snapped, and his tongue seemed to caress the soft spot behind her jaw, more a distraction to him than anything.

"Nm… my bag, I have-" she paused as he bit down on the soft spot, hitting something that really made her choke on her own words and just outright gasp and twist her body like a contortionist, a picturesque response to pleasure if he'd ever seen one, so he repeated the gesture, more fiercely, grabbing her shoulders, pinning her down and letting her skin beat madly against his own while she was mewing and hissing. Whatever spot he hit, it was the very, very right one. He didn't want to, she could tell, and this made him very irritated, but tough beans to him. The interlude of franticly searching for a condom wasn't exactly his favorite practice when his dick was uncomfortably hard.

"Brat." She said, amongst fast breaths, how very brazen of her. Jill ran her hands over his broad shoulders, down his biceps, grabbing them pointedly and he pulled back to absolutely glare at her. So that was what was hiding under the shades? Incredibly gorgeous, very angry eyes that could probably make her orgasm on look alone. The dirty dreams would never go away after this. Reluctantly, more reluctantly than he had ever been prior, he pulled away and sighed through his teeth, making one of the most obnoxious "the hell, woman" postures she had ever seen. He was used to getting his way, she could definitely tell even in her aroused, fuck me now pose. He, surprisingly humored her, walked to her bag at the nightstand, and grabbed the entire thing, returning and throwing it to her side. Jill sighed at his character, but she wasn't to be passing judgments. She did agree to this, after all.

"Enough coy play." He hissed, and crawled back to where he was, teeth bared like a demon. He was pissed, he bit into that spot without mercy, hard enough to make her cry out, but his desperation turned her on. Never had she seen the Captain so disgruntled or out of control, it was dark and daemon-esque . The wariness in the back of her head chimed in, telling her that this was exactly what made her uneasy, but at the moment she wasn't in any mood to be anything but ungodly horny. Her hand fumbled around the contents of her bag to the left, digging to the bottom and curling around the condom there, and he just kept going, growling, biting her neck and kissing her skin, squeezing her tit roughly. She kept moaning in approval, everything felt so good, so sexy and fucking perfect.

She pulled out the condom and he unbuttoned her jeans, ripping them off her thighs faster than she could gasp at the sudden rush of air to her skin. He couldn't keep a poker face, not through this, she noticed. Smart, sarcastic bastard couldn't handle hiding it for once. The Captain, her Captain (how did this happen?) crawled his fingers under the line of her panties and his teeth found a nipple to bite while those too were thrown off. Jill yelped, her fingers tore into his seemingly perfect hair and her shapely hips rammed against his fingers. God damn it… just do it- NO WAIT.

She was half wanting to just rip HIS pants off and fill herself full of rock solid dick, but she was the protectorate to herself, and just chucked the condom at him across her stomach. Again he growled, but he took it, setting her thoughts of baby Weskers from hell to ease. He was lying on top of her, so all she could see of him was his head at her neck, his muscled back, but not the prize she was incredibly curious about. She heard his pants slip to the floor, felt them slide against her legs, heard him tear open the condom package, but she didn't see it. A shame.

"Valentine, I am not going to regret this." He growled, voice terse, husky, full of want, and she pined at her own name in that dirty, dirty voice. Oh, she knew he wasn't, and she knew she probably was, but he thought of the future, while she thought of the present. At the present, she wanted to punch him in the face for even bringing it up, the regret she didn't have yet.

"Captain, sorry, but you are between my legs already." She groaned as she said it, bent her knees into his sides and felt him then, rock hard, stiff, pressing against her pussy, parting it by just leaning into her. It was her turn to growl, and snarl she did. He was a lot of things, but tease was unexpected. Apparently her words were enough, he grabbed her hips and pushed his pulsating cock in inch by inch, by incredibly large inch. She didn't care how loud she whined then, or how hard her spine curled in on itself and how far her back came of the sheets- this was real medicine for her inner nympho. The first penetration was bedazzling, stretching her out with heat and a dose of cock if she ever felt one.

He actually shook , she saw his arms as they shook for some reason she couldn't quite read (restraint?), he was clinging to the seam of her hips so tightly that she could already feel the inescapable bruises (how would she explain THAT one to Chris….) welling up. He groaned as he got to that point, a sound that was that one in a million years kind of thing. He was well-endowed, her imagination got that one right, and her body thanked that so heartily, with a simple hiss of "move", or was that a breath of "yes"?

Whatever she had said, or moaned, it was green light. He did move, move fast and hard enough to rock both of them, his hands remaining on her hips, controlling them, pulling her down as he moved to meet the wet inner thighs. She swore a few times under her breath as he growled and grunted with every firm slam into her body. Her skin was on fire, sweat had pooled on her forehead, and damn if he wasn't smashing her inner poise with the grace and eroticism of his body.

"Nnn…aahh…. Wesk-"

He shut her up immediately with a kiss that practically defined his entire personality of dark, handsome, and insanely aggressive. He kept moving, kept thrusting his hips, kept his hands on her hips where slivers of nails were denting her pale skin with crescents that would most certainly be there when she woke up. He was so controlling… so impressive though, that she didn't mind the apathy of keeping his hands in one spot, because his lips were telling her a strange truth, and his eyes were burrowing into her with as much sex appeal as his cock. He pulled away and kissed the corner of her mouth, which was an oddly empathetic gesture for him- maybe she was being a little harsh.

"Albert." He muttered, amidst a grunt of approval as her muscles tightened on reflex. The name mulled about in her punch drunk head, swimming in the shallows with soft moans, restrained cries as he hit THE spot and proved himself to be every inch of invasive and a carnivore of reactions. Albert, huh, what a name for such a guy. It sounded like something more reserved, more bookish, but it was his name, and honestly it sounded better than "Captain". The first name basis line was crossed with flying colors and vulgar wet noises.

"Albert." She shuddered out, experimentally caressing the syllables with curves of her tongue. He smirked and her bedroom thighs tightened around his back. His knees, which had been pressed into black satin, pushed him up slightly, he took her hips, picked them up forcibly, plastered her back.

"Stretch back, Jill." He murmured between wet slaps of skin, a suggestion in its finest, and her body trembled at it. What was he playing at? She was so close, she could feel the looming orgasm and she wanted it to happen so badly, and he wasn't stopping, just continuously moving over her like a very well oiled machine.

"Brace your hands on the headboard, Valentine." He continued, three syllables of her surname dripping with such eros and thick arousal, but enough of his commanding side to make her want to obey him. She did, stretching her arms back behind her head, palms to the wood of the bed back, breasts bouncing as he started pushing harder, and pulling less, his grip on her hips loosening until he was certain she was holding her own weight.

And then his hands wandered all over, grabbing at everything, squeezing every inch of her raw and red. Oblique muscles, packed perfectly under her skin but there, thighs squeezing around his middle while her hips remained lifted. He gripped her thighs and spread her wider, growling and hissing like an animal as he rutted into her, every push met with her moans.

She was of the opinion that she had standards in sex- that she wasn't some whore who moaned and screamed and other such stereotypical banter, and she was pretty damn sure that was why he was going at her harder. Jill was quieter than most people, but she was very readily doing her share of verbalizing coitus. His name sounded really fucking good when she hissed it, arms over her head, back coming off the sheets that felt like she was being fucked into a cloud of silk.

No way in hell was she holding on, or wanted to hold on for that matter. Delaying satisfaction, orgasm, whatever, she was done. Jill gave in, her body sprung in every nerve, everything fired at once and made her draw out a gasp to express it. Orgasmic bliss drenched her brain, threw her muscles out of whack and forced her thighs tighter around him. Her pulsing internally must have hit him hard, he bent over to catch himself, and he seemed surprised as his own orgasm shot him from brain to muscle. He snagged her shoulders, braced his forehead on her collarbone and let out a growl that she could hardly believe it human. He shook like something shocked him, twitched and she felt him near explode through the rubber he was so gracious to put on. Damn… he was an animal.

They didn't collapse, either of them, but he lowered himself on top of her and rested on her body, breathing hard into her skin. She didn't care how badly she was panting, but she got her Captain winded, and that felt indescribably as good as the afterglow. He seemed perplexed, if marginally, as his chin curved above her head, and he made no move to roll off of her. Savoring the moment perhaps?

"Go to sleep." He muttered, and then decided to pull out of her. The stick of sweat and fluids rolled down her thighs, and she heaved a sigh at the stoicism in his voice. She didn't expect pillow talk or anything, just some sort of… confirmation or appreciative word or two. Or maybe a dig on Chris. Wow… Chris…

He slipped off the black satin and ghosted away; she rolled on her side and curled up in the sheets. Satin against her skin, soft, luxurious, stained perhaps, but infinitely pleasurable to the senses… she hardly knew she was asleep before long. Too many shots, too largesse of a one-night stand, her mind was exhausted with so much new and old information that it didn't think twice about what had just occurred, just said "well that was fun, bye".

And while she slept, he cleaned up and didn't even bother to hide the near grin on his face. This one night was nice, delightfully so, but what she didn't know, was it was also goodbye. Albert Wesker silently walked back to her bed, crept in without disturbing his partner, and let a kiss caress the special space between her naked shoulder blades. It was no secret to himself that he found the woman incredibly attractive, in technical skill and in looks. Sure, she wasn't the traditional poster child for sex, and she wasn't in on the covert happenings in front of her face, but he liked her. It was a real shame, though, that she would be dead by tomorrow morning.

He, who always thought ahead and never to the past, gave a quick flick of his lips to the shell of her ear, and lied against her, enjoying her warmth, the way she seemed rather peaceful as she slept, and he closed his eyes. Chris was going to kill him, but that was the plan, after all.

He smirked in his sleep.

Written for the kink meme (which people should write for, yo), ;D. I love these oneshots.


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